Online dating is a challenge. As websites bombard you with supposedly viable matches and your inbox fills with messages and winks from men who think you’re “a cutie” or “reeeeeally cool,” you think: it would be nice if there was a road map to help me weed out the guys I could walk arm in arm with from the ones I may need a restraining order against.
After months of scanning, surveying, replying, blocking, and first-dating, here it is, to your rescue:
The Online Dating Match Approval Matrix.
(in the style of New York Magazine’s Approval Matrix)
The Online Dating Approval Matrix -- Your Guide to Finding Mr. (Almost) Right Online
Some mothers would be content with homemade scones & an afternoon relaxing. Not my mother.
Some mothers are content to spend Mother’s Day at brunch followed by an afternoon at the spa. But sitting down and relaxing, even after two hip replacements, are not activities my mother believes in.
When my family and I awoke to a perfect spring morning, I thought I just might be able to trick Mum into spending a leisurely day sunning ourselves in the garden. I baked orange-current scones, cooked-up Spanish-style fava beans, scrambled some farm-fresh eggs with cheese, and the three of us gathered outside under the umbrella to dine in the fresh air.
As she sipped her iced-tea she looked uncharacteristically at ease. “I think we should pull out the Adirondack chairs so we can sit and survey our ‘estate.'”
I was encouraged. Could it be possible that I’d get to spend the rest of the day reading David Sedaris and catching some sun while she sat peacefully and color-coded her calendar?
No.
My mother wanted a new lawn for Mother's Day & I was the landscape gardener of choice
We’d been kicking back not 5 minutes before she turned to me and said:
“By the way, your father and I went to Home Depot yesterday. We have everything we need to till and reseed the lawn. There’s a pile of dirt under the plastic over there.”
“Are you telling me that you want to spend Mother’s Day digging up the yard? Don’t you want to watch the DVD of our summer vacation I made for you?”
“No. I want to dig up the lawn. Ask dad for the shovel. Let’s get to work.”
I felt a gardening glove hit my shoulder. I knew it’d be a long time before I’d be allowed to sit down again.
Over the last 2 years, I may have cultivated a new interest in gardening, but let me tell you, digging up a lawn, hauling dirt up stairs in a wheelbarrow, and spreading peat moss over grass seed is not gardening — it’s back breaking work that should be left to professionals.
At the end of the day, after we had finished the lawn and I finished cooking dinner, my father, the dogs, and I collapsed into heaps on the couch.
“That was a great mother’s day! I got everything I wanted — a new lawn!”
Next year, forget the homemade, thoughtful gifts. I’m buying her a landscape gardener named Carlos so I can spend Mother’s Day at the spa.
Tilling and reseeding a lawn isn't gardening. It's back-breaking work. But Mum got what she wanted. And I got a bottle of Aleve.
“How are you adjusting to life as a full-fledged working woman?” –> This is the question I’m most frequently asked by those that know me. Not “how’s the new job,” or “what’s your boss like,” but how are you coping with this foreign concept of a 9-5.
Standing in the locker room, in nothing but a towel, I realized I'd have to go to work braless. This wasn't an option.
Overall, I’d say I’ve adjusted pretty well. And then I have days like yesterday and I realize adapting to my new lifestyle is still a work in progress.
This time last year, I was a full-time athlete. My 9-5 involved wearing no make-up, traveling abroad, and working out twice a day.
Since I started my job as a gallery coordinator, my biggest challenge has been balancing the regimented fitness routine I’m used to with the new demands of a workweek. Despite not being a morning person, I’ve committed to a morning gym schedule — a decision that reminds me why I try not to face the world until I’ve have my two cups of caffeine.
Yesterday, standing in the change room post spin class, wrapped in a towel, I assessed the contents of my locker:
Linen military jacket: check.
White, curve-hugging, scoop-neck top: check.
Printed linen ankle-length skirt: check.
Custom made cowboy boots and Navajo belt: check and check.
Outfit resembling costume for an extra in the movie of Custer’s Last Stand: assembled.
But wait… where’s my bra?
Had I gone bra-less, I would easily have been mistaken for another kind of working woman.
I held the skin-tight shirt in my hand and considered my options. Being small chested, I’ve frequently ventured out into the world sans support wear. But the elasticized and someone transparent material I was about to don made the decision for me.
Going bra-less would make me look like another kind of working woman.
It was settled: I’d wait for the Victoria’s Secret between my car-park and the gallery to open and buy a new bra. I’d be late for work, but at least I’d be setting the right example — only the day before I had lectured my assistants about “gallery-appropriate quantities of boob-age.”
I inherited 2 filing cabinets at work. One came filled with loan agreements and checklists from past exhibitions. As of today, the other is stocked with clean undergarments.
A working girl must always be prepared.
To avoid future post-gym forgotten underwear calamities, there's now a filing cabinet under my desk that looks like this.
April showers reportedly bring May flowers. April, 2011’s spring rains were absolutely ones of renewal, bringing with them a new blossoming job and a budding new outlook on romance, the sum of which equated to countless new possibilities for awkward social encounters.
Apparently, there are mug theives in my office. Even personalized mugs aren't safe.
Scene: 9:45AM, Day 2 at my New Job. I walk into the staff kitchen with my spill-proof, porcelain coffee mug with an intent to fill it. There’s a petite blond woman kneeling on the counter top, straddling the sink, blocking the coffee pot while she rummages through the cupboards.
“Have you seen my mug? It has my name on it.”
“No…”
“I ordered that mug especially with my name on it so no one would take it. You’d think that if someone saw someone else’s name on a mug they would think ‘this mug belongs to Kate, so I won’t take it.’ But no! Not here. People just take your mugs. Do you have your own mug?”
“Yes…”
“Let this be a lesson to you. Keep it with you always, otherwise someone will take it. Sometimes they even break it. The coffee is fresh, by the way.”
So much for my plans to get to work early
Scene: 8:30AM on the first real springy day in April. I’ve decided I want to leave work early, so I wake up extra early to get to the gym extra early so I can get to work extra early. Post workout, I’m standing in a Diane von Frustenberg skirt and Cole Haan loafers in the parking lot of the gym. The car doors are locked and my keys are staring at me from the front seat, laughing.
Thanks to the keys locked in the car incident, I arrive at work late, only to discover the artwork hanging in the window (the piece that was the lead for a NYTimes review of the exhibit) has come unhung. To rehang it, I have to mount an 100-year old radiator, in a skirt. The burn on the inside of my knee was, luckily, hardly noticeable.
Scene: Late night Saturday, there’s a monsoon raging outside and I’m inside a cozy restaurant on a date with a guy nearly 10 years my senior who might, arguably, be classified as a “player.” Being rather forward, he kissed me. A metallic object suddenly bashes against my front tooth with an audible clunk. Concerned about the integrity of my incisor, I pause.
I saw the scarf and thought Parisian, my boss saw the scarf and thought "She's hiding a hickey." Imagine if my date's tongue ring had chipped a tooth...
“Do you have a tongue ring?”
“Yes.”
“A warning would have been nice. These teeth aren’t straight but they were expensive…”
Scene: It’s the Tuesday after the monsoon-bathroom-tongue-ring debacle, and I’m wearing a white collared blouse and have a magenta silk scarf tied around my neck in a bow. There’s cake in the staff kitchen. My co-worker and I are stuffing our face. She turns and asks:
“Are you trying to hide a love bite? WhoisheWhat’shisNameWhatdoesHedoforworkIsHegoodenoughforyou?”
“Umm… No? It’s a rainy Tuesday in April. I’m just trying to cultivate my inner Parisian.”
They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband 